Date: Fri, 22 Jan 1999 11:10:37 EST
From: ABuck50@aol.com
Subject: Jason's Appomattox
Jason's Appomattox
A Gay Erotic Fantasy of A Black and A White Man in the South
Copyright 1999 Anonymous DBA Abuck50@aol.com
Chapter 1
Jason swung his Camero left, down the driveway between an old
Hardee's and a Texaco station, over a little beat up concrete
bridge across a drainage ditch and into the parking lot of the
Sherwood Apartments. It was a straight line of three, two story
brown brick and concrete buildings behind the south side of a
line of gas stations, fast food joints and cheap furniture stores
that ran long each side of Butler Avenue.
Butler was a broad four lane road that looked like someone had
spilled a bunch of worn out businesses down each side of it forty
years ago. The first floor of the apartments looked across the
ditch at back doors and loading docks, and the second story
looked into a tangle of power lines at the back of the jumble of
sputtering neon signs that staggered along the road. The signs
were so dense that it has hard to tell which one advertised what
building, stuffed together back when the South thought that
zoning was un-American.
Everything about that part of suburban Atlanta was ratty, built
up in the fifties as fast as cranes could swing prefab buildings
and cinder block off of flatbeds, and then left behind as
development pulled the money further on out. The apartments were
barely blue collar, put there because they could be shoved in
behind the stores and because there were plenty of people who
couldn't be choosey about where they lived. From the road they
looked like an old abandoned motel.
No one who lived there wanted to. For some it was where they had
to be for now and they just wanted to leave. Others knew it was
the best they would ever get and they hated the place for it.
And no one knew anyone else or wanted to either. But it worked
for Jason and Keith.
Jason lived in an old rural black town with all kinds of
relatives scattered around, including a preacher for an uncle,
and Keith was a Army intelligence analyst. Neither could go home
with the other. No one who knew either one of them would ever
see them there so four months ago they took an apartment and
split the rent. They met about three times a month and spent the
night or some part of a weekend.
Jason drove down to the end of the last building on the right,
parked near a line of rusty green dumpsters and climbed up the
outside stairs to the end unit on the second floor. He took a
breath as he slid his key in and opened the tan metal door. It
looked like it always looked, furnished better than you would
think in bargain brown leather furniture from Sears, one of those
groupings in a corner of the store that you just say OK to and
take it all, with not quite enough stuff around the room to
suggest that anyone really lived there.
He was early. Jason didn't want to drive all the way home after
work and then have to come back, almost 40 miles on east out in
the county to Ballard's Crossing. Keith wouldn't be there until
at least 7:00 p.m. and maybe later. Jason slid up on one of the
stools at the counter that looked over at the little strip
kitchen, then looked around the place and wondered, as he always
did, why he was there and whether he should be. He wanted to be
there, he just didn't want to have to.
Keith would go to his townhouse first, ditch the suit and take a
shower and change into jeans, loafers and a polo shirt. He tried
to dress down to go over but he didn't really know how. Jason
would shower there and change into clothes that were clean
versions of the ones that he wore at the warehouse.
Jason never thought that this was would happen since he didn't
even understand why he wanted white men and didn't like most of
the ones that he met. He always assumed that he would continue
to pick up pretty white boys who went crazy over his lanky black
athletic body, but that it would stay a long series of one-
nighters with a few repeats thrown in.
Jason finished five semesters at UNC up in Chapel Hill before he
had to come home and go to work when his mother got sick, and he
intended to finish. But being black in Georgia, even now, still
meant dealing with a kind of racism that had just stepped behind
the curtain and was still controlling the show, sometimes hard to
see outright but always impossible to escape. The white boys at
the bar treated him like they had a job for him to do.
The jock-frat business types made fools of themselves trying to
decide who got him when he showed up at one of the dance bars,
usually close to closing. Little clusters of twenty-to-
thirty-somethings giggled as they glanced over and flapped their
eyebrows about whether one of them was going to be brave enough
to do it.
Black, strong, lean, 26 and blue collar to boot -- Jason was the
perfect southern white boy's wild fantasy. And he would give
them their dangerous night and be the big black cat that slides
out of the jungle and brings them down with his powerful body
pounding them into oblivion, and leave them wondering how they
survived it and whether they had the guts to do it again.
The night always started off when one of them was drunk enough to
ask for it and ended up somewhere near dawn when he was unable to
move and hurting when he did. Every now and then it would get a
little rough if the guy was so wired on ecstacy or meth that he
whined about Jason's condom and wanted it bareback. Jason would
tie him down, put two of them on to help him last longer and do
it until the guy was crying and couldn't breathe -- and they
seemed to like that even more, a pathetic rape fantasy after
their invitation to death had been rejected. It made Jason
wonder even more why he wanted to have anything to do with them.
As much as the white boys loved the whole thing they would drop
him as soon as it was over -- no phone numbers, no contact in the
daylight -- until another late drunken night when they needed to
get flushed out, so they would try to pick up the hot black guy
so he could do what they wanted.
Keith was alone the night he saw Jason, keeping apart from the
bubbly crowd, standing over by a column on the side drinking a
beer. He was exotic, mysterious: young, athletic with a hard cut
jaw, close auburn hair lying perfectly in place, a wide chest and
flat belly with veins running up the sides of his neck; but skin
that was a soft, smooth translucent white, a natural ruby splash
on each cheek, beautiful wide eyes and elegant thin lips -- a
little boy's face on top of a strong man's body.
It was hard to figure out who he was and what he wanted.
Everybody looked but few guys felt secure enough to approach him.
There was a distance about him that made him look stern. A
couple usually did go over eventually but his vacant face always
dissolved into a sweet manly one as he smiled, cocked his head to
one side and shook it nicely "no thanks."
When Jason saw Keith he saw that Keith was already looking at
him. Keith straightened up and took a long breath. He was not
there the way the rest of the white boys were. Jason knew right
away that Keith was waiting for something and it was starting to
look like Jason was it. This was different. This had never
happened before. As Jason began to realize it the noise and the
lights and the crowd of pretties prancing up and down all
dissolved out of focus and back into a dark hushed denseness.
Jason nailed Keith's eyes to claim his place in this. But now it
was Jason, for the first time, who was wondering what was going
to happen. This guy didn't give off any signals that he was
going to ask or do anything at all. He just stood there, strong,
staring. Jason let his head drift over and his jaw float up a
little, still staring. It said, "Yeah?"
Keith set his beer down on the shelf running around the column
and walked through the crowd straight up to Jason.
"Hey," he said.
"Hey."
"Whadda ya lookin for?" Keith said.
"White ass," Jason said back, almost bored.
"How 'bout mine?"
"Sure," Jason said. "You got a place?"
"Yes. I have a motel room nearby, would you like to go now?"
"Yeah." Jason turned and walked toward the door.
Keith slid into the butterscotch leather of his white Legend
coupe and Jason fired up his deep-throated silver-gray Camero and
followed Keith to a little motel near the interstate where no
questions were ever asked. Keith went straight to the room; he
had taken one before, hoping something would happen, now it was.
Neither one said anything.
Keith opened the door, walked in, Jason followed and Keith shut
the door, turned around -- Jason grabbed his crotch and pulled
him forward and reached around and hooked his index finger down
into his crack through his pants while Keith pulled his polo
shirt out of his pleated slacks and over his head. In the
darkness his white body glowed like the soft-hard marble of a
young god in shadow, beautiful enough to just look at. Then,
still looking into Jason's eyes, Keith unhooked his belt and
unzipped his pants. Jason let his hands slide off of his ass as
Keith stepped out of his trousers, and pulled off his socks and
shoes.
Keith turned around and walked across the dark room, pulled the
covers down and off of the big bed and slid up on his back
against the headboard, spread his legs and let one hand glide
down over his tight stomach.
Jason was almost angry. This guy was deciding what was happening
here. He walked over to the foot of the bed and took his clothes
off and stood there looking down at Keith, one hand massaging
down into the blackness between his legs. Keith reached over for
a plastic bottle of lubricant, filled one hand and slid it down
through his crotch and hooked two fingers up his own ass. He
rolled the bottle down the bed, Jason took some and began to
massage his cock slowly with both hands. Then his right forearm
pumped as one hand bounced his dick up from beneath and let it
smack heavy on his hand several times.
A ragged frame of light glowed softly around the curtains. Just
enough of it fell across Jason's dark body in the even darker
room for Keith to barely see the muscles running down his torso.
As Jason massaged his dick different parts of his powerful
shoulders, chest and arms flowed through the soft glow in the
room, letting Keith see one part of his body and then another in
a slow-motion dance of black muscle rippling in and out of the
light. Jason was majestic now, a mystical phantom taking shape,
forming out of the darkness all around them.
Keith saw both of Jason's hands disappear again into the pitch
black of his crotch, saw his shoulders work his arms and then
heard the little pieces of tinfoil fall quietly to the carpet. A
shudder ran up Keith's spine.
Jason dropped one knee on the bed and then the other and moved up
between Keith's legs as they separated a little more and came up
off the bed. Keith reached up with both arms and hooked them
around and under his knees, pulled his knees up and out and back
down toward the sides of his head. His smooth white belly
gathered up into tiny folds of skin, the muscles in his chest
rose up and his paper white ass spread open wide and curled up
into some of the light. He held himself there, crunched up tight
and strong like a wrestler with a hold on himself, staring up at
Jason who was staring back.
Jason walked forward a few steps on his knees, held his dick by
its base and pointed it at Keith's ass. Keith tightened the arm
around his right leg to swing his butt over a little and aimed
his asshole at -- it's wet blackness glistened even blacker,
hard, straight, thick and wide. Jason stuck it in and dropped
his body down and sunk his dick all the way down to the bottom of
Keith's ass. Keith's eyes tightened shut and he pushed out a
long grunt through his open mouth and popped his eyes back open
but didn't move. His ass was a vortex that was pulling
everything that is into the burning pain at its center, while
Keith pulled back harder on his cocked-up legs and pushed them
down against his arms, compressed all of his strength into a hard
dense place inside and pushed it as hard as he could back down to
meet the pain, down through his belly and his groin and into it,
and held the pain down, hard, with all of his strength, until it
was his.
They were still staring at each other, straining to hold onto
each other's eyes in the dark. Keith was not writhing around or
whimpering like the pretty boys did. He was braced for it,
holding his place, coiled and trussed up in his own strong arms
maneuvering his ass.
It wasn't clear to Jason whether he was fucking this man's ass or
this man's ass had ahold of his dick!
Then Jason did what Jason does. He fucked this strong ass for
about three hours, on the bed on Keith's back, over and straight
down into his ass, on his knees from behind on the floor,
sideways with one knee cocked up, standing up spread-eagle
against the wall...there wasn't a part of that room that did not
have Keith planted on it one way or one time or another. And all
the time Keith fucked back with his ass, massaged Jason's dick if
he paused, clamped down and held onto it hard until it hurt and
made Jason almost cum when he couldn't stop pumping even when he
wanted to, then as he felt the first signs of Jason's cum start
to boil he let his ass go slack and opened it up and held him
off, so he could work him up again. This ass was as willful as
the dick that was shoved up in it all night.
Jason worked up a good sweat and went a little crazy inside.
This is what this guy wanted, all the time, not like the ones who
did it when they were screwed up enough to get stupid. And this
guy was not giving anything up to Jason. He was in this, a part
of it, using his ass as much as Jason was his dick.
By 4:00 a.m. Jason had shot three times, Keith twice jacking
himself off as Jason did, the last time finally falling back and
letting loose and collapsing and letting Jason go anywhere he
wanted to finish.
After, Jason got up and went over and sat down in the small club
chair, flopped his legs apart and watched Keith lying on the bed.
Keith got up, went into the bathroom, turned on the water and
came out with a hot cloth and a towel.
He knelt down between Jason's legs and slid one hand under his
cock and held it for a while. Then he reached down and took the
tip of his condom and started pulling on it, slowly, until it
stretched and started to slide, pulling Jason's thick dick up and
out off of his hand, and letting that hand float back to run its
fingers through the black hairs curled around the bottom of
Jason's balls, pausing when the rim of the condom caught on the
rim of the head of Jason's dick, holding out this great black
dick so heavy that it was pulling back, slick and wrapped in
veins still full, watching it and waiting...until one side of the
condom curled up over the lip of his head and it slipped out,
fell back down into Keith's open palm, bounced once and quivered
still.
Jason breathed in deep and dropped his head back when Keith first
wrapped the warm cloth around it and held it firmly between his
hands to let the heat soak in. Keith then held it up and to each
side, caressing it and stroking it with the warm cloth.
Keith dried off Jason's dick and crotch and ran the towel up over
his body. Then he pressed his thumbs and pointer fingers into a
circle around the base of his dick and balls, pushed into Jason
and up with his thumbs to make Jason's cock rise up into a
swollen arch, bent over and slowly slid his open mouth over
Jason's dick and let it rest on his tongue, soft and heavy, and
let his head sink on into Jason's crotch and the nine long inches
of brawny black cock slide down his throat. He held it there,
down in his chest for several seconds, then slowly pulled off and
let it go, straightened up on his knees and bent down again,
found it twisted slightly as it slid down his inner thigh, and
kissed the head of Jason's dick now lying softly on the chair.
Keith's eyes wandered up Jason's body until they rose into his
half-open eyes looking down, and Keith smiled: "Hey -- again."
Jason smiled a little back.
Keith leaned over to the little round table next to them and
scribbled something on a pad and gave it to Jason and said,
"Here." Jason took it and held it out to the side.
"OK," Jason said.
"I have to go," Keith said, "it's awful late. Call me if you
want to. I hope you will. Leave a message if I don't answer,
it's OK. OK?"
"Yeah," Jason said, surprised, "sure" and nodded.
Keith got up, wiped himself off with another towel, got dressed
and came back where Jason was still sitting, slung out like a
runner resting, watching this Keith move around in the dark like
a ghost.
"I'm going to leave the key here on the table. The room is paid
for. Just leave it here and leave when you want to. Take care,
man. And call me." Keith reached down and plucked Jason's
nipple and smiled, opened the door and left.
Jason stared for a long time into the dark room, so humid and
heavy that he felt his chest push against it when he breathed in
deep to pull it into his lungs and taste the night again. After
half an hour he left and got home as the sun was coming up.
That's how it started. At first they couldn't get enough but
couldn't do it very often. Jason fell in love with Keith's ass
and, for the first time in his life, he made slow sweet love to
one that was making love to him. Jason used his dick to look for
places down in this hot man's ass. Keith's ass talked about the
places they went and whispered hints of new ones.
Over the next few months they spent a lot of money on the motel
until they decided to find an apartment that no one else would.
So, Jason thought, looking around the Sears President's Day Sale
special, this is where we are, sneaking over to this place.
Still no contact in the daylight.
***
Keith waived his ID card up past his left ear as the whirling
lasers in the wall plucked the bar codes out of the air, lined
them up and stamped the video tape with the time. He walked on
through the domed glass atrium, out of the double glass doors and
into the parking lot.
Behind him rose a long two-story red brick L-shaped building that
was only a minor variation of the fifteen others meandering
around the industrial park. The grounds were manicured and lush
-- some of Atlanta's most promising new industries were growing
up in this nursery.
The second floor of Keith's building was occupied by the Defense
Logistics Center's Transportation Planning Command. If anyone
asked, it was about planning for transportation-related
contingencies, both peacetime and war -- pretty boring -- and it
was classified so he couldn't really talk about it, anyway. That
usually took care of any questions but it was easy, if he had to,
to fudge and dribble out some of the cover about airlifts,
convoys or the Teamsters.
The TPC moved words around, however, not supplies. It was a
cover for the part of the country's intelligence operation that
had been put down in Atlanta to keep it out of sight, away from
military commanders who didn't need to meddle in it, and in a key
senate district.
Keith was a Arabic linguist, Specialist E-6, the brainy side of
staff sergeant, one of three dozen language experts who tried to
figure out the messages beneath the words.
When foreign messages were intercepted by any of the intelligence
agencies, they first whet to the National Security Agency outside
of Washington. There, anything of explosive significance was
edited out and sent on to who needed it. Then two copies of the
tapes were sent out. One went to a little campus look-a-like in
rural Virginia masquerading as an agricultural research center.
There the communications parameters were analyzed: the
frequencies and bandwidths and other technical markers of
different kinds of messages and messengers, and they worked over
codes and ciphers that NSA had not unraveled. The other went to
the TPC in Atlanta where Keith and his colleagues tried to
understand what the words meant beyond what they said. They
studied the nature of the rhetoric and how it changed in
different situations, looking for signs of stress or urgency, or
conflicts between correspondents, biases and assumptions, and
which ones were particularly intelligent.
It was a perfect job for Keith. It was a secret like his life,
several layers deep, one deception relying on another, and his
job was to look for hidden meanings. It was quiet, unhurried,
and without any pressure since their analysis flowed into
strategic analytical papers at the NSA that were sent around to
embassies and military commanders to help them understand their
players, but of no particular urgency and even less interest to
most of the people that got them. And it was all an official
secret, a government secret, created and protected by the
Congress of the United States of America, burrowed down deep at
the center of what was supposed to be good.
He watched his white Legend coupe grow closer as he walked across
the lot. It was a perfect match, sleek and trim, elegant,
graceful, smart and quiet, but with neck-snapping power under the
hood. It always glowed with its own sensuality but even more so
when it was time to drive it over to see Jason. He felt a tingle
in his groin as he opened the long door and breathed in the soft
leathery air and tasted Jason already. It was the magic carpet
that would take him off to his other world and he loved
everything about it.
The routine was just that. Home to a small townhouse in a
development full of grad students moving through who didn't want
any lasting connections there, a shower in a silky body wash,
back out to the car and off to get gas. It was important to get
gas because that was where he took one of the removable "Georgia
Peach" bumper stickers that he kept in the trunk and laid it over
his office parking sticker, just in case.
What he was doing was bad, so bad that he dedicated his life to
it. Keith looked like what every Christian, white, southern
capitalist family thought they wanted their oldest son to be. He
radiated health, confidence and an honorable future. And he
bought the whole thing early on, believed every bit of it and
assumed that the carpet would roll on out before him forever.
Then being Baptist and gay started bumping into each other; he
believed faithfully that he should not want what he did want
passionately.
A substitute teacher in his senior year of high school caused a
collision. The young man, somewhere around 30 and looking like a
recently retired Olympian, walked into Keith's class one day and
Keith thought that he was going to have to leave. He had elbowed
aside all of the tugs and temptations of other men over the past
few years. But he needed to touch this man. He had to get naked
with him, alone. It became an obsession. Keith could not think
about anything else for the week that he was there and barely
survived each hour that they were in sight of each other.
After the last class, Keith found him in the hall as he planned
and asked to speak with him. He muddled through some near
breathless nonsense about tutoring to help him stay on the
swimming team and keep his grades up. He was a wreck, sweating
and flustered. The teacher told Keith that he understood how he
felt, that it was OK, and that he knew it was tough, but that it
would not be good for either of them to try to work together and
one day Keith would understand more clearly why.
He was stunned. The man knew. And he was saying no.
The teacher squeezed his shoulder, smiled, and walked into the
hallway crowd. Keith's balance faltered -- he loved him now
because he was so kind about it -- and a scream started swelling
up, but he held it. He stood there being bumped around, unable
to move, watching the teacher vanish into the scurrying students,
and then trying with everything in him to sense whether any of
them had gotten it too. But he concluded that this had been his
own private humiliation in the midst of a swarm of strangers. He
felt his whole world fold in on itself, tucking him back up into
a place that he would spend the rest of his life trying to
escape. He rushed back to his church to prove that he was good
but found there only institutionalized guilt that was celebrated
every week.
And so, after graduation, the Army. Perfect: Duty! Honor!
Men! When he learned about careers in intelligence he knew that
he had found his place, where secrecy itself was honored above
all else, and he became good at it quickly.
Every few months after being stationed in Atlanta he would sneak
over to a gay bar. Even with pride marches and mayoral
proclamations, Keith was not about to be out. But he became so
awash in hormones every few weeks that he floated up out of his
life into that other one and went to a gay bar. They were always
the ones easy to find, the big dance bars, and they never
satisfied him. He did not want to be anyone there. Sometimes he
got a blow job in back hallways and let a man run his hands over
his body, but he left frustrated and jacked off again at home to
a video.
Then Jason showed up one night. That was not only a man standing
over there, a solid, strong, confident man out for sex with
another one, he was black. Black! Jason was everything that
Keith was not supposed to want. And so he had to have it. As
soon as he saw Jason he saw them like the saw himself and the
teacher, both standing naked face to face and glorious, alone in
all existence. Keith was consumed again with the same explosive
passion that had taken him away a decade ago in history class.
This time nothing would get in his way. Finally, he would to
have it. This night. And he did.
Keith saw the apartments a block away and Butler Avenue came back
into focus around him. He knew that Jason would already be there
and wondered what he'd be doing. It had been three weeks this
time. His body worked itself loose against the leather seat.
This was the only problem with his beautiful car: it couldn't
fly.
He parked and went up and tapped on the door. There was no
answer, but he heard the TV so he unlocked the door and swung it
open. A tape of the last UNC-Clemson basketball game was on.
Jason was lying along the brown leather sofa, one arm up over his
head the other hanging off, one knee cocked up against the back,
the other leg lying long along the leather, in a black T-shirt
and blue jeans with no shoes, his mouth slightly open, sound
asleep.
Keith smiled and closed the door quietly. He sat his duffle down
by the wall and turned the volume down to a murmur, tiptoed over
to the sofa and sat down on the floor, cross-legged with his
knees up and wrapped up tight in his arms, one hand locked onto
the other wrist, and looked at this beautiful, wonderfully
dangerous, man.
To be continued...
Copyright 1999 Anonymous DBA Abuck50@aol.com